


continents vanish.

by ftwnhgn



Category: Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor
Genre: Canon Era, Character Study, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internal Monologue, Past Relationship(s), References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 02:43:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12098970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftwnhgn/pseuds/ftwnhgn
Summary: She stares at the paper for so long, she would have forgotten what the sentences on there said - no, meant - if it wouldn't be for her brain already memorizing every word she wrote.





	continents vanish.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I listened to the full new "Welcome Home" romantic version for hours and it inspired me to write this. 
> 
> I edited it, but it's still unbeta'd and if you find any errors: they are now yours, cherish them.
> 
> Title: inspired by the lyrics to welchome home (romantic)

She stares at the paper for so long, she would have forgotten what the sentences on there said - no,  _meant _ \- if it wouldn't be for her brain already memorizing every word she wrote. Because, of course. That's what happens whenever she writes. It's a blessing and a curse, this talent; this ability to write down what she feels, and when she started on their safer bet of a competition song she was positive she could work something out that is good and worthy of a first place.

Well, she  _did_  write something great. Her eyes scan the page again and, yes, she did. Two times already, if she's honest with herself. The first one was painfully true, in a way that makes it hard for her to breathe when she imagines singing these words out loud, on a stage and into the world. Just the thought of telling these, these stories that are so much more than just lyrics or her poems or stories; that are whole lives wrapped in verses; feels like the hardest thing she might would ever do in her life. (She never buried him, _never had a chance_. She never touched the paper that came through the doorway to inform her on the crashing of everything she's ever known and loved. So, the point stands: it would be the hardest thing she'd ever do.)

But the second one. The song, this new poem for Donny to set into the same melody and harmonies as the first, into the same sheets of notes and messy scrawl, is not even only painfully true, it's devastatingly and hauntingly honest. She looks at her own words, her wishes and hopes and their promises that were crushed by the horrible reality of the war and of something too out of reach for her to ever touch, and she feels the tears at the corners of her eyes and the pain pumping through her veins in fresh new waves with every rapid beat of her heart. It's not broken, not anymore, not really in the classical sense anyway. It's a wave of grief crushing over her and daring on crumbling this whole new sense of belonging and hope under its unforgiving power, and  that  feels even worse than the heartbreak they always force on her.

The  _what-if_ is looping over her pages like a storm-cloud over the late summer days she so started to love since they always made them their own. The  _could-be _ feels like a hard stone sitting between her chest and her stomach, threatening her to think thoughts she doesn't even want to think; thoughts she gave up months, months ago. The  _should-have _ is the worst, though, with its sharp claws that dig into her lungs and windpipe, making her breaths shallow and uncomfortable. The should-have that sometimes keeps her up at night, follows her around all day and swallows up every ounce of happiness she tried and fought so hard for to get back.

The devastating sense of hopelessness and impossibility nudges itself into her brain and her nails dig into the page like it's the only thing keeping her grounded -( _it is_ ) - and her vision swims before her now, the tears falling and dropping onto her sweater sleeve. Of course. Of course this would happen. That's just how it is.

They deserved better.  _He_ deserved better.  _ More_. She deserved more of him and more time with him and he - he deserved to come home, at least. He deserved to be buried along with his family and close to her; just as he wished, just how they talked about; and so much more. They deserved to have a life, and a family, and growing old together.

They would have deserved for him to come home.  _She would have. _

She shakes her head in a desperate manner, trying to chase the thoughts away. There was no use in wishing for something that never would be possible. It was hopeless. He will never come back to her, she knows this, but he's now with God, and sometimes it's the only thing to reassure her of going on, of  _keep _ going on.

Michael would have wanted for her to go on and, maybe, even to sing these words. To sing both songs, to show the world the honesty others don't dare to share. What's left of him is continents away but  _she knows him_ ; always did; and Donny did too, and she knows that Michael would encourage her to sing.

The paper is dry and somehow soft under her fingernails as she traces the words she wrote down minutes ago, though it feels like a lifetime has passed since she couldn't hold her tears back from edging their way into the open. 

 

> _ Starting for the doorway as I call your name.  
>  Desperate to believe our life will be the same. _

 

When she rereads the poem and words every word with her mouth, the tightness in her chest starts to grow airy, to go away a bit - not fully, no, _never_ fully - but enough to not feel trapped in people's perceptions of her life and her past anymore - and she takes a deep breath to ground herself.

It will _never_ be the same. No matter how hard anyone tries with their words or actions or pitying glances. But she can write down what she knows and keep him alive this way, with every page in her book. A legacy full of music - it's what he'd love, she is sure of that.

She can hear the sound of a piano being played coming from the living room, so she carefully closes the book and puts the pen away and onto the desk in front of her. Another breath just for good measure as she stands up and straightens her posture a bit.

Her love will never return, she will never welcome Michael home, but she will give him one, extend the one he already had within and around her, and build him one between the instruments of six guys that live their truth in a way she's only ever seen in him; in the words and jokes they share and notes they play to make it possible for her to sing.

Because home has _always_ been Michael, but now it includes a bit more than just him. And as she takes the notebook in her hand to share what she wrote, she knows that this is not a bad thing.

Relief sets her lungs free and as Julia looks up, a finger on her wedding ring, she knows that it's Michael somehow, too.

She can do this.

**Author's Note:**

> i love julia trojan so much, wow.
> 
> if you have liked what you read, leave a comment if you want (it always means a lot!) or chat with me on tumblr (andreinbolkonsky) or twitter (xbigboysdontcry) where you can see all my posts about loving bandstand forever
> 
> a reminder: you are loved, you are enough and you will achieve great things. you are right just the way you are, a living and breathing thing. keep going.


End file.
